


if you were church (i'd get on my knees)

by phylocalist



Series: mandatum novum [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Priests, Angst, Blasphemy, Clergy, Devotion, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light breathplay, M/M, but it ends up good i promise, demon!Yuuri, priest!viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phylocalist/pseuds/phylocalist
Summary: Father Nikiforov crumbles, his hands clutching his heart as he curls in on himself, the cross at his chest burning him like he’s been made a demon.A whisper escapes his lips, his voice reverent and filled with love, the way it should only be when he’s saying the Lord’s name. He repeats it, like a prayer, like the Hail Marys and Lord’s Prayers he had to repeat when he confessed his sins, when he told the priest for the first time that he had kissed a boy behind the school.The icons, forgiving and yet merciless, judge him from above as he weeps for the one man he will never be able to have.Nearly a sob, his last whisper resonates throughout the empty church and bounces back to him, like it’s saying:Keep it. It isn’t welcome here.“Yuuri.”





	if you were church (i'd get on my knees)

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for the heartbeats zine released a month ago, in february 14th! this is the piece i contributed for the R-18 zine, and has a central theme one the five languages of love: acts of devotion. 
> 
> i would like to thank the mods of the zine that made it a great project to work on, every one of the contributors i had the pleasure to have my work alongside of and [fia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteandsmall) who beta'd this fic for me and cheered me on all the way! <3
> 
> disclaimer: no actual altars were desecrated in the making of this fic.

The church is almost never empty, except for the wee hours of the night. These are Viktor’s favorite hours to walk it.

His footsteps echo all over the walls, bouncing off the iconostasis that line the wall dividing the nave from the sanctuary. It’s like they’re talking to him, whispers that he cannot decipher but he listens to nonetheless, with an attentive smile and an open heart.

Viktor kneels on the first row of pews, to the right of the Beautiful Gate and before the icon of Christ. He closes his eyes, brings his hands together and starts reciting his morning prayers. They are routine, a habit acquired from his deacon days that he could never quite shake off. They help him center himself and start the day with a clean mind.

“Do you still think He will forgive you?”

The voice surprises Viktor for a moment, but he quickly composes himself. He starts back up the prayer that had been interrupted and finally addresses the visitor once he’s done. He doesn’t open his eyes — he can’t face him, not today.

“God forgives all of those who honestly repent for their sins. As long as you come to Him with an open and honest heart, He will forgive you,” Viktor says.

Heels click on the concrete floor and Viktor tenses, the line of his shoulders stiffening up and his hands tightening around each other. A feather-light hand caresses his shoulders from left to right and he can suddenly feel warmth next to his face. An exhale warms the right side of his face and something gently brushes his thighs on the left — a tail, he reflexively knows.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Do you repent, Father Nikiforov?” The visitor asks, voice like warm honey spreading itself all over Viktor’s right side and into his ears.

Viktor shivers as his hands clutch the cross hanging from his neck. He’s so _warm_ , and he’s calling Viktor, so sweetly.

He doesn’t answer to the visitor’s question, because if he tries to, he knows he’d be lying. Instead, Viktor gulps down the words that are burning his throat and forces himself to calm down. To forget.

“We… we’re performing a baptism in a few hours, so…” he trails off, hoping the visitor understands him and doesn’t make him say it.

The figure tenses next to Viktor’s face so suddenly that it makes him cringe. The tension passes in a second and the warmth is gone from the right side of Viktor’s face just as quickly as it came. Viktor feels himself move, follow the warmth like a sunflower looking for the sun, and has to stop himself.

With his eyes still closed, Viktor can clearly hear the click of the visitor’s heels on the floor as he walks away from Viktor.

“Right,” he scoffs. When he talks, his voice is strained and laced with self-deprecation. Like it hurts. “Exorcising the original sin from a baby with the original sin itself on the same place would be kind of weird. Wouldn’t it, Father?”

Viktor doesn’t answer. He can’t bring himself to, not when he’s so desperately trying to keep his eyes closed and not see him, not miss him, not _need_ him.

“Please,” he begs like he’s asking for forgiveness. His voice is small, barely a whisper, and it breaks on the middle of the word. It’s one simple word, and yet it weighs so much on his tongue, wraps itself around his throat like Christ’s crown of thorns.

“I’ll… come back.”

The words aren’t a warning, but they cut Viktor with enough force to think they are.

In a second, the visitor is gone. He vanishes into thin air and Viktor misses him immediately. His knees are sore from kneeling too long, his eyes hurt from scrunching them too tight to keep them shut and his throat burns with words unsaid.

Father Nikiforov crumbles, his hands clutching his heart as he curls in on himself, the cross at his chest burning him like he’s been made a demon.

A whisper escapes his lips, his voice reverent and filled with love, the way it should only be when he’s saying the Lord’s name. He repeats it, like a prayer, like the Hail Marys and Lord’s Prayers he had to repeat when he confessed his sins, when he told the priest for the first time that he had kissed a boy behind the school.

The icons, forgiving and yet merciless, judge him from above as he weeps for the one man he will never be able to have.

Nearly a sob, his last whisper resonates throughout the empty church and bounces back to him, like it’s saying: _Keep it. It isn’t welcome here_.

“Yuuri.”

  
*  


The baptism passes without a hitch. The baby Viktor holds on his hands is plump, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. It’s so full of life that it’s almost scary to hold it in his hands, cradle it and take away a part of it that it didn’t even ask to be taken away.

Viktor caresses the baby’s wet hair and tries to calm down its cries, smiling down at it. He turns to the icon of Christ next to the Beautiful Gate and raises the baby in his arms, offering it up to Him.

“May His grace be with you.”

The chapel fills with the sound of footsteps, chatter and the clicking of cameras. Viktor, trying to tune it out, turns back to Christ and crosses himself quietly. He repeats it two more times, chanting each time in a low voice: _Господи спаси и сохрани_.

He turns to the family, thanks them for their time, their devotion and honoring their child to be part of His kingdom. After blessing them, he hurries over to the quiet comfort of the offices.

It’s not often Viktor feels overwhelmed by groups of people, but today his mind’s been full of the man that visited him earlier. Every click of the women’s high heels against the floor reminded him of the way _his_ shoes clicked on it, echoing around the church. Every whisper throughout the ceremony reminded him of the way _he_ had whispered in his ear, the warmth that spread through Viktor’s body at the sound of his voice.

Viktor sits in the office, desperate and tainted. He knows touch that he shouldn’t know, he has felt warmth that he shouldn’t have felt, he remembers pleasure that he shouldn’t remember. He has been touched, has been taken, has been _dirtied_.

He is no longer worthy of serving Him.

And yet, he wishes he could be serving _him_.

Bile rises up in his throat and Viktor quickly grabs his rosary from his pocket, feels the beads as he murmurs the prayers and concentrates on forgetting.

  
*  


The next time he visits, it’s in the evening. The sun filtering through the tall windows of the church cast everything in golden. The iconostasis looks holy, as if any moment they could come to life solely by His command.

The church is in a lull, empty as the evening mass is being prepared and the children are in classes or at their dormitory. _He_ wouldn’t have come otherwise, anyway. Generally, he slithers on the shadows. He hides and merges with them, stealthily making his way to wherever he pleases. Viktor has seen him disappear in a puff of dark smoke, calling all the shadows to himself as he starts to vanish, as if they’re asking to leave with him.

Today, he walks bathed in golden light. He’s standing in the middle of the aisle, directly in line with the pulpit that Viktor is preparing. The sunset casts his left side in liquid gold, brings out the sharp lines of his features and glints on his tail as it swishes lazily.

Viktor thinks he can see a halo around his head. It blinds him.

He is nothing but a blind, hopeless man longing for a warmth that he has grown to know, that he has grown to crave. He is desperate and red in the face, his hands clenching into fists so hard his knuckles go white. He is a martyr at the feet of the cause he will die for.

“Father Nikiforov.” _He_ speaks first, because he always does.

“It’s early,” Viktor says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. His brain is a screaming chorus of _kneel, worship, beg_.

“Hmm,” he muses. His body turns to the tall windows on the left side of the church and towards the setting sun. Viktor gasps. His profile is bathed in light, and he looks like an angel pulled straight from heaven: blinding, sacred and completely untouchable. Viktor thinks, _this is the figure all painters should be making icons of. This is the creature this church should be worshiping_. “Isn’t it pretty?”

His voice shakes Viktor out of his stupor and he turns too, reluctantly taking his gaze off of the figure before him. “Yes. All of His creations are beautiful, but I must admit I find the sunset one of the prettiest ones.”

“Oh?” He says, his voice interested. Viktor can feel his eyes on himself and shivers. “So you think I’m beautiful too? He created me, in the end.”

“I -” Viktor gulps. He didn’t mean for his words to be taken like this, but he can’t lie either. Not when half of his brain is telling him _he_ is the most beautiful creation Viktor has ever laid his eyes on. “If He created you and decided you were necessary, then I will accept His decision.”

“That’s good and all, but…” he trails off, and suddenly he appears in front of Viktor in a puff of smoke. Viktor falls back against the pulpit out of surprise because his face is so close, too close. A sharp nail caresses Viktor’s cheekbone, the sensation drawing a shiver out of him. He’s _so close_ , Viktor can see the slits of his pupils and the deep brown of his eyes. He watches them as the golden sunlight completely fades, turning his eyes from a warm brown to a dark black. Darkness that is trained on him. “Do you think I’m _beautiful_?”

Viktor tries to look away, get a breath in to clear his head, but the nail on his cheekbone suddenly turns into four as a hand wraps around his chin and forces his face back.

“I…” Viktor breathes out, but he is centimeters away from him and his eyes are dark and wanting and so empty that Viktor wants to jump into them and pull out the divinity that he has seen buried there. He closes his eyes and a tongue licks his cheek, making him flinch and utter, in a pleading voice: “ _Yuuri._ ”

A fever runs from his face to his chest and into his limbs, making him desperate and pliant, unable to think of what he is letting happen here, in the House of God. Yuuri’s tail reaches up to the side of Viktor and under his robes, coiling itself around Viktor’s calf. It feels like shackles, and Viktor has never been more happy to be bound.

“Ah. So you _do_ remember,” Yuuri says, rubbing his cheek against Viktor’s.

The tip of one of his horns pushes Viktor’s hair out and messes with it as he moves from kissing his cheek to his jaw to his throat. His fingers coil around it, his thumb and index fingers pressing on Viktor’s carotids and making his mind go foggy. Viktor thinks, _this is it. He’ll finally kill me_ , but Yuuri’s nails only press until a pinprick of blood comes out of the sides of Viktor’s throat and then moves to his chest, between his collarbones. Viktor’s cross, under his robes, pushes against his ribcage and burns with the weight of his sins.

Yuuri flinches for a moment, but doesn’t take off his hand.

“Do you ever forget His name?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor doesn’t say: _when I’m with you. He doesn’t exist when you’re around. No one is higher than you_. Instead, he says: “Never.”

Something passes through Yuuri’s eyes. Viktor thinks it’s hurt, but Yuuri’s eyes aren’t looking at him and it’s gone so soon that Viktor thinks he must’ve imagined it. Demons shouldn’t feel _hurt_.

Yuuri is silent for a moment that stretches on forever. Viktor watches him, speechless, unable to break free or make himself talk. He watches, following the lines of Yuuri’s horns as they wrap around themselves and disappear into his hair, moving down to his shadowed temples and cheekbones, all of him dark. Viktor thinks: _he should’ve been born gold_.

Almost against his will, one of his hands reaches up to touch the sharp point of one of Yuuri’s horns, feel its solid shape and ridges in his hand. They are one of his favorite parts of Yuuri’s anatomy, loves the way he can grip them hard in his hands and they still won’t break. For a fleeting second, Viktor wishes he was made of whatever Yuuri’s horns are made, so he would never break either.

The touch makes Yuuri flinch and seemingly come back to himself, because his eyes turn to Viktor’s. Viktor gasps at the sight. Yuuri’s pupils are dilated and the black doesn’t feel empty anymore; they feel so full they’re spilling out, pristine tears falling from Yuuri’s eyes and over his cheekbones, the moonlight catching on them as they well up on his eyes.

And then he’s gone.

Viktor falls to his knees in front of the iconostasis, but he doesn’t pray or thank or beg the saints for mercy. Instead, he calls out, like it’s being wretched out of him: “Come back.”

  
*  


It’s three am and Viktor is never awake at this hour. He turns in early every night to be able to wake up before the sun rises and do his daily prayers, getting himself ready for the day to come and the services to make.

He’s been consumed lately by thoughts of _him_. It’s been a few days since he visited and Viktor’s skin is burning with the need to be touched. He’s been distracted by the preparations for Easter lately, but it’s not enough anymore.

Viktor’s been dreaming. He keeps dreaming of sharp, dark claws raking across his body and leaving thin lines of red behind. He wakes up in a sweat, always, hard and aching and _impure_. The sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and hurries him up to change his sheets before they keep clinging to him like the hands of the monster he wants to fall into.

The metal bowl clangs against the altar as Viktor places it atop it, taking care that the bowl stands balanced as to not make the water spill out.  When that’s settled, he moves to the right of the sanctuary to look for a cloth to dry with and places it next to the bowl of water. Taking his cross out from under his robes, Viktor raises it in front of the bowl of water and starts reciting the prayer for the blessing of it. It calms down his fast heartbeat and the droplets of sweat at his temples, centers him like a mantra.

He finishes. And Yuuri is just there.

Yuuri sits on the altar, his legs crossed one over the other and his tail moving under him. Viktor looks up at him, tall over the altar, all of him gorgeous and enveloped in shadows. He swallows and tells himself it’ll be okay.

“Would you please let me wash your feet?” Viktor asks.

It had been desperation that had brought Viktor to this conclusion. He’d debated with himself and his faith for the past few weeks, on where his devotion lay, but he still couldn’t make himself say it. He couldn’t tell Yuuri, but maybe like this he would understand: _I devote myself to you, my God_.

Yuuri looks taken aback for a moment and looks Viktor dead in the eyes, silent and calculating. He either finds something or doesn’t, but his face softens and gets set in determination. He nods, extending one hand towards Viktor’s face and gently brushing his claws against it. Viktor sighs, his eyes fluttering closed, and then steels himself.

Viktor kneels in front of Yuuri, in front of the altar that contains the sacred relic, in front of God and of _his_ God.

For a moment, Viktor wonders on how he’s going to take off the lace-up knee-high boots that always adorn Yuuri’s calves, and then they’re gone in a puff of smoke. He ends up face to face with a pair of unexpectedly human feet: no sharp nails or scales or fur, they’re just a bit battered. Viktor takes one of them on his hand and utilizes the other to pour holy water over it. The water runs down from Yuuri’s ankle to his toes and falls in drops back into the bowl underneath them, the moonlight making them glint like diamonds. When he’s cleansed all of the foot, Viktor takes the cloth and wipes it dry.

As if something came over him, Viktor can’t stop himself from moving forward and pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s foot, his lips closed in a chaste and reverent kiss. His eyes flutter closed as he moves downwards to Yuuri’s toes in a line of kisses. A hand buries itself in his hair and Viktor arches towards it, aching for its touch.

Not yet.

He washes the next foot with the same care as he did the first, taking his time in pouring the water and making sure every part has been cleansed. Then, he wipes it dry with the cloth and kisses it from ankle to toes, gently cradling the foot on his hands. He stays there, silent, with Yuuri’s foot on his hands like it was made of gold.

“What does this mean, Vitya?” Yuuri asks.

It’s the nickname that breaks Viktor. He arches forward, his hair falling over his eyes and hiding him from Yuuri’s view. His cross hangs from his neck and he sees it shine in the moonlight.

“I will devote myself to you,” Viktor whispers.

Once the words are out, everything changes. Yuuri bends forward to grab Viktor by the collar and pulls him up and to his face. Their lips clash almost violently, one of Yuuri’s sharp fangs managing to catch Viktor’s bottom lip and cutting a slash across it. Yuuri quickly licks the wound clean and continues kissing Viktor, bringing both of his hands up from his collar to his face. Yuuri kisses him with desperation, as if this moment could be taken from him in the blink of an eye, and he holds on to Viktor with dear life. He separates them, moving Viktor’s head back, and looks at him in the eyes, panting.

“Will you?” he asks.

Viktor puts his hand on top of one of Yuuri’s and leans into it, devotion and worship written in his every movement. “My life is yours.”

  
*  


They end up on top of the altar somehow. Yuuri still sits on top of it, but now Viktor is sitting on his lap, facing him. His robes were taken off quickly, but he’s still wearing his cross. He’s panting and sweating, the heat of Yuuri’s hands and mouth all over his body turning him into nothing but a shivering mess of pleasure. He’s dough under Yuuri’s hands; pliable, soft and wanting. He bends when he’s told to and he straightens back up when Yuuri wants him to. He’s merely a tool to respond to Yuuri’s every command.

Viktor is hard and leaking, his cock yet untouched, and he wants to be used and filled.

“Yuuri, please,” Viktor begs, because that’s what you do when you ask your God for something. His head is resting on Yuuri’s shoulder and he’s panting against it, intermittently mouthing at the skin there.

“You’ve done so good, Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs against Viktor’s cheek and Viktor shivers at the compliment. “You’ve been so good for me. Can I ask you for something more?”

“All that you want. I’m yours.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Yuuri reaches next to him and takes Viktor’s rosary out of the pocket of his clergy robes. “Give me your hands,” he says and Viktor immediately does. Yuuri takes his hands and places them palm to palm, as if in prayer, and wraps the rosary around them, effectively binding them together. Viktor gulps at the sight, but before he can process it Yuuri is grabbing his ass with both hands and lifting him up. “I’m going in now,” Yuuri murmurs and Viktor nods, _yes, finally_.

Yuuri slides in easily thanks to all the time he’d spent carefully prepping Viktor. Viktor gasps as he fully bottoms out, his ass coming into contact with Yuuri’s thighs, and he’s panting. He’s so wonderfully full of Yuuri, enveloping him on all sides, and it’s all almost dizzying. But there’s nothing after that. He moves his head from Yuuri’s shoulder to look at him in the face and he notices Yuuri’s smirking.

“Now move.”

Viktor whimpers at the command, but he isn’t sure if it’s out of pleasure or pain. With his hands bound, he can’t even place them on Yuuri’s shoulders for leverage; all he has are the muscles in his thighs.

“Can I… my hands?” Viktor tries, showing them to Yuuri.

“You can do it, Vitya. I believe in you,” Yuuri says in lieu of an answer, and kisses Viktor’s chin. He isn’t malicious, but he’s definitely amused.

Taking in a deep breath, Viktor centers himself and, using the muscles in his thighs as sole support, starts slowly moving up on Yuuri’s cock. He comes back down a little bit faster, but his breath is starting to waver as he tries to keep up a rhythm. Yuuri bends forward and places both of his hands on Viktor’s waist, not helping in the least bit, and he takes one of Viktor’s nippes in his mouth. Viktor moans at the contact, at Yuuri’s sharp teeth delicately caressing the sensitive nub, and falls down all at once.

“Ah, _ah_ , oh Christ…” Viktor pants, his head resting on top of Yuuri’s. He absentmindedly pecks one of the horns.

Yuuri laughs. “Blasphemy, Father Nikiforov. Don’t you know you shouldn’t use the name of God in vain?”

“Oh, shut up,” Viktor says, neglecting to mention how past that he is, especially when he has a demon’s dick in his ass and they’re fucking on top of the sacred altar.

Yuuri returns to Viktor’s nipple, his tongue circling it as his teeth gently scrape it, and Viktor’s full body shivers. His hands are trapped, still bound, between their bodies, so he can’t grab hold of Yuuri’s horns as he’s used to do. Instead, he arches towards Yuuri.

“Please don’t let me stop you,” Yuuri says as he moves to Viktor’s other nipple, a smirk adorning his face. “Keep moving, Vitya.”

“Fuck,” Viktor breathes out, and starts moving again. His athletic days are far behind him, so his thighs are already screaming at him to stop, they can’t move anymore, but he powers through. He can feel every ridge and vein of Yuuri as he slowly goes up and brings himself down, Yuuri’s claws feather-light on his back giving him goosebumps and making him shiver all over. There is so much to keep track of: Yuuri’s mouth on his chest, his hands on his back and the sensation of his cock going in and out of Viktor that he’s almost overwhelmed. He’s nothing but pure sensation, a nerve pulled taut and being teased over and over.

It’s only a few minutes later that Viktor starts whimpering, the need of something harder, faster than the rhythm he can keep up with only his thighs. He needs to be taken, be filled, and this is not _enough_. He arches towards Yuuri, resting his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, and whines against it.

“Yuuri, please,” he pleads into Yuuri’s ear, breathless with effort and desire. “Please, I need… _more_.” It comes out as a whine and Viktor clenches around Yuuri, trying to get his point across.

He thinks Yuuri got it, because a guttural growl immediately comes from Yuuri’s chest and Viktor’s voice comes out in a high pitched moan as Yuuri grabs him by the hips and starts thrusting into him, hard and relentless. Viktor has only half a mind to wrap his arms around Yuuri’s neck and hold on for dear life, before he completely loses himself.

He comes untouched the first time. All he needs is Yuuri slamming into him, Yuuri sucking a hickey on his neck, Yuuri’s hand on his hair pulling and pulling and finally bringing him over the edge.

The second time, he’s edged until tears spill from his eyes and every single touch feels like too much and not enough, his spine arched towards Yuuri and his bound hands making a sorry display of pushing him away. The stone of the altar feels cold against his shoulders and ass as he arches away from it and towards Yuuri over him, buried to the hilt and slowly thrusting into him, the come and lube all mixed up enough that they don’t even know which is which anymore. He touches the head of Viktor’s dick once and Viktor jolts all over, whimpering at him _stop, keep going, I can’t_ …

So Yuuri complies. He speeds back up his thrusting and slowly scrapes his claws against Viktor’s stomach, torso to end up at his throat. He squeezes for only a few seconds, astute fingers knowing exactly where to press, and Viktor comes like his life is being sucked out of him.

They don’t even bother trying to count how many times Yuuri came.

When Viktor finally comes down, his whole body twitching from the aftershocks, Yuuri is peppering kisses all over his chest. He’s pulled out and the dribble of come and lube coming out of Viktor has pooled on the altar, desecrating it. Viktor feels a shiver run through him at the sight, but he doesn’t know if it’s out of guilt or pleasure.

Yuuri notices immediately and shyly smiles at him. “Are you alright?”

Viktor tries to answer but it comes out too strained. He opts for nodding instead. His eyelids feel heavy and his body is exhausted. Sleep will claim him soon.

“It’s ok,” Yuuri says, taking Viktor’s hands and unwinding the rosary from them. There are red impresses where the beads bit against Viktor’s skin as he was thrashing around and there might even be some bruises in the near future. Yuuri touches Viktor’s hands like they’re made of something precious: carefully and with devotion. He brings them to his lips and peppers them with feather-light kisses, making Viktor shiver at the sight. After all, he never thought a God could worship its believers.

He carefully lets Viktor’s hands fall to his sides and arches over him to press a chaste kiss over Viktor’s lips. His hand caresses Viktor’s face delicately, always making sure his claws aren’t hurting him. Viktor turns his head against the palm and hums contentedly.

“I’ll take care of you,” Yuuri promises. And Viktor believes him.

Viktor never stopped to think about it before, but maybe Gods make promises too. Maybe Gods worship and love and hurt. Maybe Gods stay.

As he drifts off to sleep, Viktor feels Yuuri lovingly press a kiss against his forehead and he’s sure now.

Yeah. Gods stay.


End file.
